Six Ravens sat on their big black-and-chrome bikes in the parking lot of the old strip, and man, they were a thing of beauty.
“Our chariots await, I guess,” Becca said, looking as relieved as Kat felt.
They rushed off the bus and toward the bikers. Phoenix waved Kat toward his bike, helped her on, and handed her a helmet. A guy Kat didn’t know well did the same for Becca.
“Hold on, now,” Phoenix said over his shoulder.
And then they took off in a phalanx. Two Ravens in front of Kat and Becca, two behind. Kat was almost giddy with victory and relief.
Within three minutes they negotiated the fortified jersey-barrier-and-chain-link roadblock that Detective Vance had put into place after the attack on Hard Ink—he’d fed the papers the story that the explosion had been due to a neighborhoodwide gas main break that necessitated cordoning off the old, largely abandoned industrial area. Inside the fence, Kat could finally breathe easier, especially when the bikes pulled up to the gate to Hard Ink’s lot. They waited for it to open, then rolled inside.
“Thanks for the ride,” Kat said when they came to a stop.
“Like I told you,” Phoenix said when he removed his helmet, “anytime.” He winked at her as she took off her own helmet and dismounted. Then he revved his engine and pulled a U-ey. In a line, the motorcycles roared back out of the lot.
Charlie came bursting out the back door, Eileen nipping at his heels. “You two okay?” Both of them nodded. “They’re fine and they’re back,” he said into a cell phone, then he hung up.
“Was that Nick?” Becca asked.
Charlie nodded. “Yeah.” His gaze cut to Kat. “And you might wanna hide.”
Chapter 13
Beckett was pissed. Blood-boiling, seeing-red pissed.
Kat had gone way the hell off the grid, endangering herself and Becca. And then somehow the Ravens had gotten involved, causing a three-car pile-up on Eastern after they’d run a red light. The latter had temporarily blocked the team from following the bus Kat and Becca had jumped on, and from making their way back to Hard Ink. The only good thing was that it had also cut off the cop who had been following the women. Which Beckett supposed had been the point.
Still, so much for operational imperatives like executing a carefully orchestrated plan, or behaving in a manner that escapes notice, or concealing identity, or secrecy, or stealthiness. For fuck’s sake.
Yet, by comparison, Nick’s fury made Beckett’s anger seem like a minor, passing annoyance. Nick’s rage seethed out of him until the air in the car nearly vibrated with it. Cheeks flush, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to near slits, he strangled the steering wheel so hard it creaked in his grip.
From the front passenger seat, Marz looked over his shoulder, his gaze filled with all kinds of Oh shit. The guy looked like he wanted to say something, but he held back. And you knew shit was bad when Derek DiMarzio bit his tongue, because that guy was pretty much fearless in saying what needed to be said.
“You’re gonna have to dial it down and give her the benefit of the doubt,” Marz finally said, his tone unusually subdued.
The look Nick sliced Marz’s way was pure ice.
“She’s not a soldier, Nick. Whatever happened—”
“Yeah, and that’s crystal fucking clear, isn’t it? And it’s the last time she’ll be involved. Period. Beckett was right. She had no business being out there today.” He took the turn into Hard Ink’s neighborhood fast and hard, making the tires screech against the blacktop.
Annnd . . . that comment took the edge off some of Beckett’s anger. Because his bullshit had been borne of worry and concern. And if he examined the anger he felt right now, it stemmed largely from that same place inside of him.
Damnit. He was mad at Kat . . . for making him worry. Again.
Why was it that every emotion he felt seemed tied to his anger? When he was scared, he got angry. When he worried, he got angry. When he felt . . . almost anything, there was the anger. Not always at the highest volume, but there at least a little. Always. And why was he feeling so much of it right now? Now meaning not just at this moment, but in general, since he’d reunited with his team. Certainly since he’d met Kat.
Beckett heaved a breath as he looked between the men in the front seat—two of his closest friends in the world. Hell, two of his only friends—and he thought about what he’d shared with Kat the night before. How much being with her had meant to him.
And realization smacked him over the head.
Kat made him feel . . . a whole host of shit. And so did being reunited with the guys. For the first time in a long time he’d dared to want. A woman. His friends. A place to belong.
Which meant, for the first time in a long time, he’d opened himself up to rejection, abandonment, and loss. And it’d all stripped his ancient numbness away, leaving him a raw, exposed bundle of emotion. Except the only emotion he had any experience actually feeling, actually identifying, was anger.
They pulled into the lot behind Hard Ink, jarring him from his maybe-useful, maybe-ridiculous thoughts.
Kat and Becca stood there waiting for them, and the look on Kat’s face was part fight and part fear. Beckett didn’t like seeing her wear the latter at all.
Marz was right. Whatever she’d done, she thought it needed to be done. And she’d gotten them home safe. That counted for something. No, that counted for a lot.
Beckett gripped the top of the front seat. “Nick—”
But the man brought the car to a hard stop and flew out the driver’s door.
Beckett followed suit, his gut not loving the way Nick got right in his sister’s face.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he yelled.
Becca stepped to his side. “Nick—”
“Becca, please,” he said, moderating his tone only a little.
Nick glared at Kat. “You promised to do what I told you to do. You promised not to go off on your own. And what did you do?”
Shane’s truck came through the gate, he and Easy peering at the gathering through the windshield. They couldn’t get far enough in to park because of where Nick had left his car. Beckett stepped closer, not wanting to miss what the Rixeys were saying.
“I did what I thought needed to be done,” she said, tone firm, seemingly not intimidated by her brother at all, despite the fact that he was louder and bigger and royally pissed off.
“What you thought?” He gave a humorless half laugh. “Well, that’s real funny.”
Beckett mentally winced. The guy was about to cross a line—
Or, perhaps, he already had. Because just as Shane and Easy joined their group, Kat pushed around Nick and walked up to Marz. She held something up, which the guy accepted into his hand. Then Kat turned on her heel and beelined for the door. “When you’re done being an asshole, I’ll be ready to talk.” She disappeared inside.
“Sonofabitch,” Nick yelled, raking his hands into his hair.
“Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay,” Becca said, cupping his face in her hands.
Nick hauled Becca into a tight embrace. “I was so fucking worried,” he whispered.
But Beckett’s mind was stuck on the image of Becca touching Nick’s face, because it made him remember Kat doing the same thing to him the night before. He’d been upset and confused and a little out of it, and she’d offered him comfort in the form of a sweet, gentle touch.
And right now she was probably feeling a lot of those same things, only she was all alone. That drained most of the rest of his anger away. “What is it?” Beckett asked Marz, nodding toward his hand.
Marz opened his fingers until his palm lay flat. “A tracking device. Long-distance transmittal, by the looks of it. High-grade. She managed to find and disable it. If she hadn’t, the world pretty much would’ve been able to follow Becca here.”
“It was in my purse,” Becca said. “One of the policemen walked right into me. Maybe that’s when it happened. Then they all sorta surrounded me, so I guess i
t could’ve happened then, too.”
“What?” Nick asked, a scowl sliding back onto his face.
Becca pulled out of his arms and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. That’s why she did that.” Her gaze went distant.
“Why who did what?” Nick tilted her chin to make her look at him. “Hanging on by a very thin thread here, Sunshine. Explain. Please.”
“I had to cut through the ordering line to get out of the shop, which meant I had to go between the cops. That’s when one of them ran into me. He kept asking if I was okay and it was like he wouldn’t let me through. I was starting to panic a little, to be honest, but then Kat knocked the whole bin of dirty dishes onto the floor, and the cops jumped back. Then I was able to get out.”
A warm pride curled into Beckett’s chest. That hadn’t been any accident. She’d needed a diversion, and she’d crafted one that would seem totally accidental. Smart fucking woman.
Beckett had heard enough. “I’ll catch you inside,” he said to Marz.
The guy gave him a knowing look, which might’ve set Beckett’s teeth on edge if the look also hadn’t said he thought going to Kat was a good idea.
Leaving the group, Beckett went in. Where would she have gone? He tried Hard Ink first, because she’d gone there yesterday. But the place was quiet as a tomb. Her room.
He took the steps two at a time and let himself inside the Rixeys’ apartment. Jeremy stood at the breakfast bar, hands braced against the granite, head hanging on his shoulders. His dark blue shirt had white writing on it that sorta looked like a pharmaceutical ad. It read, Ask your doctor if Mykoc© is right for you.
Funny, but Beckett wasn’t in the joking mood right now. “Is Kat in here?”
Jeremy nodded. “In her room.” Beckett headed that way. “You might wanna give her some space right now.”
Space was the last thing she needed, but Beckett gave him a wave of acknowledgment. Maybe it was stupid to go to her with Jeremy knowing he was doing it—alongside a hundred other reasons—but his gut demanded that Kat needed him. And that was the most important thing right now.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door.
No answer.
He turned the knob, and the door opened.
“Go away,” came a strained voice.
Beckett poked his head through the opening. Kat sat in a ball in the corner, her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms hugging herself tight.
“Aw, Jesus, Beckett. Really?” Her face was splotchy and her eyes watery, though he didn’t see any tears.
Ten-to-one she was going through some adrenaline letdown right now, too. Which no doubt made it all worse. That shit could fuck you up even when you were used to how it left you feeling drained and shaky, by how all the stress you’d suppressed during the height of the crisis boomeranged twice over after the fact.
He came into the room, closed the door, and turned the lock for good measure. And then he crossed to Kat, scooped his arms under her knees and behind her back and lifted her up against him.
She smacked his chest. “Put me down.”
“No.” He moved to the edge of the bed.
“I don’t need this right now, Beckett. Put me down.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He pulled her face in against his throat and smoothed her hair back from her cheek. She trembled against him, just the littlest bit, her skin hot to the touch. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and hugged her tighter. “You did good, kid.”
Every one of her muscles went tight. Her hand fisted in his shirt. And her breath caught as she buried her face against his neck and shoulder.
Then Kat burst out crying.
And it was like being torn apart and put back together, all at once. He hated her pain, but he adored that she wasn’t hiding herself from him, and that she was letting him be there for her.
He didn’t shush her, or try to talk her down, or encourage her to dry her eyes. To be sure, her tears were like daggers in his heart—they hurt like fucking hell. But the only way she was going to feel better was to let this shit out. Ironic realization for him—he did actually see that. But just because you could see what was good for others didn’t mean you had the first goddamned idea how to apply those principles in your own life. And that was a problem for another time anyway.
What mattered right now was Kat. What mattered . . . was Kat.
The thought opened up a warm ache in the center of Beckett’s chest.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed. It could’ve been minutes or hours. Finally, Kat heaved a deep, shuddering breath and her muscles went lax in his arms. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Nothing to apologize for,” Beckett said in a low voice.
After a few moments she tilted her head back, but she kept her eyes closed, her breathing still uneven.
Her face was a mess. Wet. Red. Mascara smudged below her eyes. And she was the most beautiful fucking woman he’d ever seen. The thought of anyone else seeing her like this, when she was soft and vulnerable and hurting—he hated it. And he realized that it was a privilege to be with someone when life had knocked them down, because it meant you got to help build them up again.
He lifted the hem of his gray T-shirt and gently wiped at her face.
She batted his hand away. “You don’t have to—”
“Let me,” he said. Let me take care of you.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her eyes finally opening to him. The tears had turned the green absolutely brilliant in color.
“Because you needed it.” Simple as. When her face was dry, he let his shirt fall again. And then he didn’t know what to do. Or say.
“Sometimes you can be so sweet,” she said. “Thank you.”
He acted all chill, like the words didn’t add to the warmth ballooning inside his chest. “And sometimes I’m an emotionally stunted asshole,” he grumbled.
Kat gave a watery grin. “Sometimes,” she whispered.
And he didn’t even mind that she’d agreed, because that smile was lighting him up inside. She felt like crap . . . and he’d made her smile. Beckett, of all people.
“I’m not used to people seeing me when my weaknesses are exposed, either, Kat. So, last night—”
Her fingers fell on his lips. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Beckett pressed a kiss to her fingertips and nodded. “I need to say something. I hate the thought of hurting other people. It makes me crazy. Literally. I don’t have nightmares like that often, but when I do, I know I act some of it out. So I know I probably did something to you—”
“Beckett—”
“Please,” he said. “Let me finish. I’m not asking you to tell me. What I’m asking . . .”
When he didn’t say anything right away, she stroked her fingers down his cheek. “What?” she whispered.
He sorted through the whirl in his mind. “What I’m asking is . . . for you not to give up on me.” Beckett shook his head. “I’ll get my shit together. I promise.”
She looked a little bewildered by his words, which made sense since he didn’t even know what he meant by them in the first place. But then she rushed to say, “I won’t. And I could . . . maybe . . .” She shrugged, and her brow furrowed.
He was dying to know what she was gonna say. “Aw, don’t leave me hanging, Angel. What?”
She gasped and looked up at him. “You said it again.”
“Said what?” He replayed his words, and his eyes went wide. Angel. Where had that come from? “Oh, uh, I did?”
Her smile was uncertain, but she nodded.
But the more he thought about it, the more he liked the nickname for her. He didn’t see angels as, well, angelic. At least, not in the sweet sense. He saw them as fierce, powerful, warriors from heaven. Assuming they were real. Which, who the fuck knew? But either way, that shit fit Katherine Rixey to a tee.
“Well.” He shrugged as heat filtered into his cheeks. “It fits.”
r /> “Not feeling like much of an angel right now,” she said, rubbing her eye.
“Your wings are just bruised. You’ll bounce back. Count on it.” He ran his fingers through her hair, loving the feeling of it against his skin, loving her soft and warm in his arms. This . . . this was where she fucking belonged.
With her arms around his neck, Kat pulled herself up until she straddled his lap. “I was just going to say that maybe I could help. If you want.”
Beckett’s eyes went wide. She wanted to help him? “Nah, that’s on me. But I appreciate the hell out of that sentiment.” He really did. He had an idea of what he needed to do. And it was a path he was going to have to walk alone. At first anyway.
Kat dragged her fingers through his short hair. “Well, you can do it. If you really want to.”
Nodding, he said, “I do.” Honestly, he’d never before seriously entertained facing his demons. Between football and the Army, he’d had other outlets for releasing some of the bullshit in his head. Otherwise, he’d shut himself off from the world and everyone in it, and let himself go numb. Now, he didn’t have those outlets, and that numbness was wearing the hell off.
But, most importantly, now he had something to fight for, not just against.
Maybe he could fight for Kat. For a chance with her. There were at least a hundred big ifs standing between this moment and that possibility, but it was worth the try.
She was worth the try.
KAT HAD RECOUNTED the whole story from following Kaine into the coffee shop to hopping on the back of Phoenix’s bike at least three full times, and answered tons of questions in addition. She was hungry, tired, and running out of patience with her brother, who hadn’t done much to soothe her bruised feelings for the way he’d jumped on her when he got home.
“Are you sure he reacted to Becca’s mention of the money her father left her?” Nick asked, again. Sitting backward on one of the folding chairs by Marz’s desk, he’d been grilling her for nearly an hour. His anger seemed mostly gone, but he was still obviously agitated. By her? By how the op had gone down? By what they had or hadn’t learned?